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Butcher was fully convinced supes operated like vampires—sucking the life out of those around them and always asking for permission before invading his apartment with their hair bleach fumes and gaudy suits. He just wished he could wave a clove of garlic or silver cross to ward off this particular vampire. Except, Butcher never said no to the hero. There was no point in denying him entry when he could quite literally crush Butcher into a human paste within a matter of seconds.
Besides, the ex-mercenary wasn’t entirely appalled by the company on most occasions.
It started when the hero swooped onto his balcony like a red, white, and blue parasite, ready to infect whatever he could get his hands on. Talk of blood and bone and promises held between two mortal enemies.They were supposed to fight to the death or die trying—no shortcuts and no interference, but Butcher blew that out of the water, didn’t he?
He wanted to regret showing up to Herogasm with backup. He certainly wanted to regret putting Hughie and the rest of their group in danger by working with someone potentially more evil than Homelander—Soldier Boy. He wanted to regret cheating, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when it led to these nightly visits that he would deny until the day he inevitably kicked the bucket.
Since their broken promise, Butcher swears Homelander made it his mission to pester him even more by showing up routinely at his balcony. Some nights he just talked his little heart out, barely letting Butcher get a word in. Other nights he was quiet. That’s when Butcher was more concerned for the structural integrity of his apartment as the hero would attempt to literally fuck on every surface in sight in exchange for information between both parties. Neither of them cared for the intel.
Tonight was not one of those nights. Although, when Homelander arrived, he was silent, eerily so, but there was something else in his demeanor—something… broken. Tonight, Homelander didn’t wait for an invite. When he walked in, he looked like he wanted to crawl out of his own skin with his lips pulled in a thin line.
Hands were firmly tucked behind his back as Homelander pushed past the older man, his gaze hard and trained on the floor like he had just returned from a funeral. The muscle in his jaw was tight, a sign that something was grating his nerves. The air was tense, as if Butcher just let a ticking time bomb walk into his home, seconds away from exploding. From where he stood, holding the balcony door open and letting the moonlight flood into his dim apartment, he could see it—the faintest sliver of gray hairs at the front of the man’s hairline.
“William.” The cunt finally spoke a single word—a single word that felt like a ton of bricks weighing on Butcher’s shoulders.
“Cunt.” He responded in the same lackluster tone. It earned him a quick glare, the muscle in Homelander’s jaw visibly tightening in an attempt to restrain whatever insult wanted to come out. Something was off. Usually he didn’t hold back in the safety of Butcher’s shabby home.
“Am I getting old?” Homelander blurted, his blue eyes blinking furiously as he tried to fathom the thoughts bouncing around in his own head. Butcher pushed the balcony door shut before crossing his arms over his broad chest, a confused quirk in his brow. “Do I look like I’m getting older, I mean?”
Did the cunt not own a mirror? Surely, Butcher thought the hero spent all day in front of the mirror, jerking off, talking to himself, and doing God only knows what else, so what was he going on about? Of course, the hero looked older—from the gray hairs to the visible age lines around his eyes and the smile lines around his lips, Homelander was certainly looking his age, but to Butcher, that wasn’t a flaw. To Butcher, that made their arrangement a little more tolerable knowing the cunt was human.
“What are you going on about?” Butcher huffed, stalking past the hero without a second glance. He tried really hard not to roll his eyes at how pathetic the blond sounded. He really needed a smoke if he was going to be forced to listen to the man complain about the obvious. “Did your menopause come early or somethin’?” he joked, grabbing his cigarettes in his trench coat laying discarded on the floor.
“William,” Homelander huffed dramatically, his voice turning sour, “I’m serious. My dad… he didn’t look a day over thirty, so I just thought that—”
“—you’d be the same way?” Butcher scoffed, cigarette dangling loosely in his lips as he spoke. He paused for a moment to light the thing, the flame illuminating his face for a moment. “Don’t be fuckin’ daft, love. Of course you’re gettin’ older, but is there really any shame in that?” Butcher knew they weren’t the right things to say, but who cared? Homelander was the king of assholes and Butcher wasn’t really in the mood for pampering… at the moment anyway
Homelander let his fists drop to his sides, balled up and clenched hard enough to make the leather of his gloves squeak. He wasn’t even sure why he came to Butcher—why he always found himself at the man’s doorstep, but he couldn’t help the feeling of being equal to someone.
It was lonely at the top. So lonely, in fact, that Homelander felt true joy in having fear stricken through him during his fight at Herogasm. Although it was completely unfair and not exactly what their deal called for, Homelander couldn’t help himself but to be drawn to that side of Butcher—to the side that could pin him face down to the floor on temp-v. Like a moth to a flame, Homelander craved someone to call his equal.
But then, he recalled the events that led to him flying to Butcher like a stray dog, seeking appraisal and affection.
Ryan was rehearsing for his first save in a few weeks, working hard to impress Homelander and give a convincing performance. He carried himself with so much pride knowing that his kid was trying so hard.
“That kid’s face is made for the big screen—his complexion is like butter. He’s practically glowing.” One of the set producers had said, his smile audible in his voice as he admired Ryan’s performance. Homelander felt his smirk widen at that. Ryan was certainly his kid and Homelander wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Oh, thank god. Air brushing the wrinkles out of The Dawn of The Seven put VFX nine million over budget. We were neck fold to neck fold with Sex and the City 2.” An editor butt in, his voice low as if that would be enough to go undetected by Homelander’s super hearing. His smirk faded, his gaze doing a double-take on his reflection on a nearby surface. After that, Homelander spent the next hour staring in the mirror, his fingers prodding and poking at the wrinkles he never seemed to notice before.
“You don’t understand,” Homelander defended, his lips turned into a violent snarl. With age, was he getting weaker? Could people start looking down on him? Could they start looking for a replacement? Homelander took a shuttering breath, trying to calm himself, “those fucking mud people are talking about me like I’m not even there. In the halls at Vought or, fuck, even on set. They think I can’t hear them, but I do. And I just… let them!”
Butcher took a steady drag of his cigarette, his thick fingers pulling it from his lips for a moment to ash it in the overflowing ash tray on the counter. He wordlessly stalked towards Homelander, loving the way the hero tensed with each step he took, clearly confused. Lips were on Homelander’s mouth, two large hands coming up to cradle his face.
Smoke billowed out between their mouths as they kissed, the smell and taste of nicotine and ash spread across their tongues. Butcher felt the hero start to relax into this kiss, his smaller body physically leaning against Butcher for support (even if he didn’t actually need it).
“Listen to me,” Butcher spoke, his voice a hushed whisper as it practically caressed Homelander’s ears and effectively turned his legs into butter, “you’re Homelander. It don’t matter how old you get or how you look, you’re always going to be the annoying little prick in my ass.” Butcher brought the cigarette to his lips once again, his face a mere few inches from his enemy’s.
“Oh please—” Homelander grunted, his eyes rolling involuntarily at Butcher’s audacity to insult him.
“I said listen,” Butcher spat, his dark eyes boring into Homelander’s face. When they were this close, he couldn’t stop himself from admiring the man’s beauty. Fuck Vought for genetically modifying this freak into being so handsome,”you’re so annoying, I can’t get your grating voice out of me head. I can’t even turn on the telly without your appearances takin’ me breath away,” Butcher’s thumb gently grazed the prominent bone of Homelander’s ridiculously perfect face. If praise was what he wanted, then Butcher wasn’t going to half ass his end of their deal. I’ll get bloody good intel from this, he told himself, knowing it was far from the truth, “and the most irritating thing of all is your persistence… always showin’ up when I’m thinkin’ about you the most.”
Homelander snapped his mouth shut, his gaze softening at the backhanded compliments. Leave it to Butcher to effectively piss him off and leave him feeling whole at the same time. Butcher watched closely as those blue depths turned glassy for a moment before Homelander’s gaze snapped away. Got him.
“You’re absolutely fucking insufferable.” Homelander muttered, his voice sounding stuffy even as he plucked the cigarette from Butcher’s fingers and walked it over to the ash tray to be smothered out, his ugly boots thudding against the floor. Butcher took the chance to crowd him against the counter, his hands resting on the edge of the linoleum on both sides of Homelander’s hips. The hero turned within his makeshift prison, coming face-to-face with Butcher’s chest. He did the best he could in looking unimpressed
A kiss, surprisingly gentle, was placed on his hairline, directly against those gray hairs the stylist missed in their last dye session. He briefly wondered if Homelander knew they were there and if that stylist lived to see another day.
“Insufferable, but you always show up on my balcony like a stray cat beggin’ for scraps.” Butcher muttered, leaning down and fully capturing Homelander’s lips once more. He found himself staring, internally committing the view of Homelander so raw to memory. There was no one million watt smile or pretend stoicism. No, there was just him, his feelings, and the charged air between them. This allowed him to notice the scowl tugging at Homelander’s lip.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” He hissed, his arms tightening across his chest. He was trying to look bigger, but to Butcher, the action came off as insecure.
“God, you’re beautiful up close.”
Butcher was the worst at giving compliments. They were always forced, sarcastic, or backhanded as hell, so when he spoke those words, Homelander almost choked on his tongue, finding himself at a serious loss of words for a moment. He normally would’ve been angry at being called something so feminizing, but from Butcher, he couldn’t bring himself to care. In fact, he found himself growing hot in a way he hadn’t felt for anyone in decades.
Heat bloomed at the base of his neck, creeping up the column of his throat and painting his ears and cheeks a dark, rosy tint. Even in the shitty lighting of the apartment, his flushed face was obvious. Finally, the silver tongue fell silent, letting Billy celebrate the achievement with gentle kisses against the younger man’s sagging jaw.
“Billy.” Homelander grunted breathlessly. Billy. The nickname was so foreign on Homelander’s tongue, but so perfect—like Butcher’s name was made for his mouth and his mouth only. The ex-mercenary tried not to mull over the word on his lips, but, as always, his heart decided it was running a marathon, thumping loudly in both of their ears. Homelander could hear it, but he didn’t comment on it. No, he leaned into Butcher’s touch, his blue eyes fluttering closed as his hands wrapped around his waist.
What were they doing? A simple exchange in information for sex shouldn’t involve such delicate touches and warm kisses, but neither of them seemed to complain—neither of them were here for their original transaction. It was never about that. To Homelander, it was about being close to the one who understood him the most. To Butcher, it was about exploring the depths of his hatred, toeing the fine line between love and hate.
He loved his wife—he really did more than anything except one thing. He loved to hate even more. All his life, Butcher was raised in hatred. Beaten by the hand of his own father, he loved to blame, plot, and destroy whatever he could. He loved their game of cat and mouse, and it wasn’t his fault it evolved to giving the cat a quickie here and there.
Sweet sounds filled the air between them as Butcher’s hand blindly palmed the prominent bulge between Homelander’s legs. The hero’s laser vision illuminated the dim room into an ominous crimson. Just as quick as it flared up, the glow died down and Butcher’s lips made it a mission to swallow every moan that threatened to spill from Homelander.
This was different than usual. From the passionate lip lock to the way Homelander let Butcher carry him by floating, his cape dragging the floor just barely, this was something more intimate. Before, the two did everything with hatred, violence bubbling beneath the surface of their flesh, fists connecting with skin, and lasers burning perfect little dots into the wall or ceiling.
Navigating the apartment blindly was easy. Kicking the door shut behind them left Butcher stumbling a little bit, but it wasn’t enough to break his focus on kissing the other man. Their lips danced and smacked, only separated the exact moment when Butcher carefully laid the invulnerable man on his worn bed. He treated the hero like he was delicate—something to be treasured just for tonight. It was just to get Homelander off his back, Butcher had lied to himself despite his desire equally matching his rival’s.
Homelander expected to be manhandled. He expected Butcher to lose his carefully crafted control and take the day’s frustrations out on his more than capable body, but it never came. His blue eyes slipped open as he was laid back, Butcher’s scent surrounding him completely as the unmade sheets practically engulfed him in that perfect aroma. Cigarette smoke, alcohol, and a touch of cologne—something Homelander never thought would make his brain short-circuit, but here they both were, swimming in the safety net of Butcher’s bed.
“I get the bed this time?” Homelander rasped, watching the man start to unbutton his shirt. His eyes followed Butcher’s burly hands closely, studying the way those thick fingers popped open each button impatiently.
“Don’t get used to it, Princess.” Butcher responded, throwing the shirt off to the side. Homelander whimpered. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the pet name or the perfect view of Butcher’s toned, hairy torso that caused him to do it, but either way, he felt himself missing the feeling of Butcher’s skin against his own.
Homelander didn’t have a patient bone in his body. Not with his team, with the public, and especially not with Butcher. This still applied as he watched Butcher undress, trying to remain casual all while his heart thumped and his fingers twitched with the desire to reach out and take what was his. After an excruciatingly long few seconds, Butcher finally collapsed on top of the hero.
Teeth grazed the skin of his neck, attempting to leave marks that would only vanish in seconds if they would even take in the first place. Clothes were gone in an instant, a slight struggle to peel Homelander out of that sinful, skin tight suit. The hero was like artwork being revealed to him, glistening, pale skin a balm for Butcher’s needs. Staring appreciatively for a moment, the ex mercenary sat back on his haunches, his nude thighs sticking to Homelander’s jutting hips.
Dark eyes grazed over the indestructible body. Over the years, Homelander had gotten older—softer and rounder in parts that mattered most. Butcher splayed his large hand over that heaving tummy, feeling it rise and fall with each breath as his fingers nestled themselves against that fluttering ribcage. In that second, it really dawned on Butcher just how small his nemesis was without all that cursed padding. His calloused palm easily scaled the hero’s torso. Leaning forward and caging the blond beneath his larger frame, Butcher left open-mouthed kisses along those collarbones, forcing a hitch in Homelander’s already labored breath.
The show of Butcher so openly admiring his form was enough to force Homelander to turn his head, a deep flush staining his cheeks. There was something so magnificent about being appreciated by his enemy—something that almost convinced him of love. He had come to Butcher insecure and doubtful of his appearance and, as expected, Butcher did not disappoint, even if it were something both of them weren’t entirely used to.
“Mm,” Homelander bit back a moan once Butcher’s hand grazed his pert nipple, “Billy, fuck, you’re going to be the death of me.”
“That’s the plan, love.” Butcher spoke gruffly, his voice sending shivers down Homelander’s spine. He sat up, reaching for his nightstand while keeping his eyes trained on the man below him. A clatter sounded off when Butcher’s clumsy fingers bumped an empty ash tray onto the floor. Homelander fought the urge to roll his eyes, watching as the ex-mercenary finally brought a bottle of lube into view.
Squirting the clear liquid generously onto his fingers, he tossed the bottle somewhere forgotten. Anything beyond the mattress and the space between them was practically nonexistent to the two men. Cold met warm flesh, sending a startled jolt through Homelander’s flushed body. He buried his face into Butcher’s shoulders, blond hair sticking to the man’s sweaty skin and tickling his cheek.
Homelander wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t sure how to act or how to feel as Butcher’s hands quite literally worshipped him nice and slow. Fingers delved into his heat, touching his core, but it didn’t feel violating like usual—no, it felt entirely welcomed. He remembered all the times Butcher rushed this—all the times he just took what he wanted just the way Homelander liked. This, however, was something Homelander didn’t even know he needed.
Soft, pliant sounds slipped his swollen lips, fingers pumping and curling perfectly inside. Each pass of those digits grazed Homelander’s prostate, making his thighs quiver and shake with anticipation. His legs spread and his gaze melted into something unfocused and hazy.
“Look at you,” Butcher suddenly whispered, “splayed out and perfect.” He was far from perfect. His hair was a mess, his face with red, shame and desire coiled into one tight knot in his stomach. He was far from perfect as Butcher recalled the hero taking a life not even a couple days ago, but like this? The monster in his bed was as perfect as can be.
Homelander arched, his hole clenching almost painfully around Butcher’s fingers. The words leaving Butcher’s mouth had him turning into putty, every part of his mind going numb while every inch of his body melted into the wrinkles of the sheets below him.
Perfect? Billy thinks I’m perfect?
He suddenly couldn’t remember what had brought him here in the first place. He felt appreciated and desired for more than just his powers. He felt… loved, almost.
“Please,” Homelander begged sweetly, his voice like music to Butcher’s ears, “hurry up.” He squirmed, his hands embedding themselves in the pillow beneath his head. He clamped his eyes shut, deciding he couldn’t hold them open any longer as Butcher’s fingers worked him so thoroughly.
“Open your eyes, love,” Butcher used his other hand to caress the hero’s cheek. The blond absentmindedly chased after the touch, his blue eyes fluttering open before focusing on the man hovering above him. Butcher wanted Homelander to watch as he was worshipped by a mere human—he wanted him to watch as he came apart at the seams over gentle touches from someone he despised, “that’s it. Let me see you.”
Homelander shivered as Butcher’s fingers left his wet heat, a slick sound coming from between them once Butcher smeared the remaining lube all over his shaft. There was silence between them—nothing but the heavy breaths of two men succumbing to their basest desires. It was about one of the only times Homelander didn’t fill the void with his own voice and let himself feel what Butcher had to offer.
Deja vu riddled the ex-mercenary as he pressed the tip of his cock against Homelander’s twitching entrance. The slick glide of the lube caused it to slip, but he got it back on track, pushing insistently against Homelander’s rim. He looked down at the blond’s face, watching him chew into his lip while his face twisted with discomfort. Even with the initial breach, Homelander still kept his eyes open, his lashes fluttering with the urge to squeeze them shut.
A few nights ago, they were doing the same thing in the same position—Butcher caging the hero in while he held his own knees open. He remembered slamming home after a few angry choice words, but this was different. The uncomfortable grimace on Homelander’s face wasn’t from pain, but from the foreign sensation of being penetrated so tenderly.
Once fully sheathed, Butcher waited a moment to let the man adjust and to pepper kisses along his neck and jaw. He was in his favorite spot, embedded deep into his nemesis—dick kissing all those buttons that made the hero writhe weakly even when he wasn’t thrusting. Sensual rolls of his hips sent sparks of pleasure zipping up Homelander’s spine, rendering him boneless and gasping for breath into the dull air of Butcher’s bedroom.
Homelander was invulnerable with skin of steel, but Butcher moved like he could shatter at any moment. The thought alone would’ve sent Homelander into a fit of anger, but he didn’t seem to mind as Butcher cradled the back of his head, pressing their bodies close. It felt nice to be shown what it felt like to be cared for as opposed to Butcher’s past attempts to try and break America’s Sweetheart.
Sweat glistened, causing their skin to stick together. Butcher’s hips snapped forward, picking up speed as he drew closer and closer to euphoria, a rope practically dragging him to the cliffs edge.
“John,” he huffed, his beard scratching against the smaller man’s cheek as he lost himself in Homelander’s tight embrace. The name forced a whimper out of the pliant body beneath him. Butcher squeezed him tighter, “fuck, you’re so bloody gorgeous.”
Homelander’s toes curled into the sheets, Butcher’s girth stabbing every breath from his lungs. His cock dragged and prodded against his prostate, causing that sweet, sweet pressure to build up in his lower belly. With each thrust of Butcher’s powerful hips, he could feel parts of himself jiggling, bouncing from the sheer force of his nemesis losing himself to the pleasure. He swelled with pride knowing that he was the only one to bring Butcher such immense desire—such a basic need to chase his pleasure.
Homelander wrapped his arms securely around Butcher’s broad torso, whimpering pathetically as Butcher’s cock practically punched every thought from his brain.
Billy, Billy, Billy!
It was all he could think of while his enemy ravaged his insides—while Butcher’s erotic grunts and groans filled his head and his body with heat.
“Inside,” Homelander panted breathlessly, “come inside.” Butcher had never come inside the hero—at least not on purpose. He was always yelled at to come anywhere but there, yet tonight, Homelander was practically begging for it, keening high and clinging to Butcher desperately.
Butcher obliged, his muscular thighs slapping obscenely against Homelander’s soft ass. Nothing mattered to him in the moment except the quiet admission of Homelander wanting to be marked so thoroughly and Butcher’s deep need to finally release. The blond’s thighs clamped around him, bordering on painful, but that ache seemed to only spur him on even more.
It didn’t take long before the ex-mercenary was slamming home one more time, his thrusts stuttering into a complete stop as warmth spilled out and around his throbbing cock. The sensation forced Homelander to lull his head back against the pillows, his mouth agape and his eyes glowing red, the light a stark contrast to the dark room. Even when he shut his eyes in time to smother the blast, his eyelids glowed bright enough to illuminate the space between them. His neglected cock jutted out rope after rope of his seed, painting his chest and stomach with his glistening substance.
“Fuck!” He hissed, the sound coming off as pained. It was all too much as Butcher’s love gushed out around his cock, dripping from his stretched entrance even as the larger man pulled out.
He had never expected the sensation of being claimed fully to feel so… warm. Usually after letting Butcher take what he wanted (and vice versa on a rare occasion), he was already half way out the door, but now? Now the hero just wanted to curl up and bask in everything Butcher. He wanted to nestle into the bed sheets and press his face into Butcher’s warm body. He wanted to stay.
As Butcher climbed off of the man and disappeared into the bathroom, Homelander listened to the quiet spray of water before stretching his legs out with a content sigh. When Butcher reemerged, he paused, his confused stare landing on the figure making itself comfortable in his bed. He expected the man to be halfway to the tower by now.
Like a parasite, Homelander had somehow weasled his way into Butcher’s world, into his home, and now into his bed, and yet, Butcher couldn’t find it in himself to kick the leech out. Instead, he found himself welcoming it—feeding it with praising words and affectionate pillow talk.
They would go back to normal tomorrow, Butcher promised himself, but for now, he didn’t mind shunning Homelander's insecurities for the night.